


Ghost

by sweetiepie08



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-17 14:30:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13660941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetiepie08/pseuds/sweetiepie08
Summary: Ernesto never thought of himself as a superstitious person, but ever since that fateful night in Mexico City, he became plagued by a familiar vision. His best friend haunted his dreams as a grotesque specter and nothing could make it go away.





	1. Chapter 1

Hector looked so different in death.

Ernesto couldn't remember a moment in their entire 20-year friendship when Hector's face was blank. The man had an unabashedly expressive face. He remembered being four and his mother dragging him over to the neighbors' to visit the new baby. Even then, Hector wore his emotions on his sleeve. They spent a great deal of time around each other from a young age as their mothers were best friends. Hector would be the one always pestering him to play and Ernesto would usually concede as playing with a toddler was infinitely more fun than listening to their mothers complain about bills.

When Hector got old enough to play outside with the other kids, he took to it with full gusto. His voice seemed to distinguish itself from all others and carried over the crowd. He was also willing to attempt more bold feats than his playmates would dare. If their ball wound up on some roof or high in a tree, it was always Hector who volunteered to go up and get it. His climbs up would create a great spectacle for his audience of neighborhood kids. He'd tease a crazy stunt or pretend to nearly fall to create dramatic tension. And when he got back down, always landing on his feet but not without having obtained a scratch or bruise along the way, he grinned and laughed like his little show was no big deal.

Hector knew how to make himself the center of attention and Ernesto wanted that too. So, he'd join in on Hector's little performances. He'd add a comment or suggestion, Hector would answer back, and they'd create a back & forth that only increased the entertainment. They played off each other brilliantly and soon became the neighborhood double act. They became known simply as "those two" by the adults. Their given name was said with amusement over some antic they pulled or derisively over some mischief they made. It didn't matter which to Ernesto. He reveled in their legendary status, achieved at such a young age.

Their carefree ways didn't last, however. Ernesto's mother sat him down one day to talk about Hector. He was worried at first. He thought she was angry over some trouble they'd gotten into and was about to tell him that he and Hector couldn't play together anymore. He was so happy to be wrong. Instead, his mother explained that Senora Rivera was worried about Hector. She thought he was too naïve and too trusting and that people might take advantage of him. She asked for Ernesto look out for him and act as a role model. Ernesto agreed as he saw these traits in his friend too. Hector was smart as a whip when it came to situations that needed a little ingenuity, but he wasn't people smart. He was generous, kind-hearted, and easily duped. He could never understand why anyone would want to do something cruel, and that was the problem. Despite brimming with creativity, in this particular area, Hector suffered from a lack of imagination.

That was where Ernesto came in. He'd stop Hector just before a bad deal could be made. Of all things, Hector needed to be reminded to think about himself.

"He asked you to help with his Papa's deliveries? But what about last time when you ended up making all of them?"

"She needs you to help with her chores? But then your chores won't get done."

"You can't lend him money. Ask around. He never pays it back."

Right after Ernesto interjected, the wheels in Hectors brain would start turning and he'd realize he couldn't do whatever favor was asked of him. Soon these lessons started to sink in and Hector got smarter about dealing with people. But he never did get over his annoying habit of thinking of others before himself. So, Ernesto never grew out of the habit of watching Hector's back.

Then, Imelda came along. Hector was 16 when love stuck him like a bolt of lightning. It worried Ernesto at first. Imelda was known for her high standards and non-nonsense attitude. This spelled trouble for guys like Hector, who was mostly comprised of nonsense. But a miracle happened right before Ernesto's eyes. Hector approached her right after she harshly turned down another suitor and within five minutes, he had her laughing.

They were married a year later, and a year after that, they welcomed their beloved daughter Coco into the world. On the day she was born, Ernesto thought back to every stupid, reckless thing Hector ever did and he realized with horror that this man was now a father. His fears were unfounded though, as Hector doted on his little girl to an obnoxious degree. His family was all he could think about, all he could talk about, and it seemed to be all he cared about.

He understood, really he did. Hector was a father now. It was new and exciting, but what about Ernesto? What about their dream to travel the world together? To play on all 7 continents? To become international stars? He thought about striking out his own, but the truth was, Hector was the brains of the operation. Ernesto had a pretty face and a pretty voice, but Hector had the songs. If he wanted to stand out, he needed Hector. It took a lot of convincing to get Hector to do just one tour with him. "Just think of it. If we're a success, you'll never have to deprive your daughter of anything. She could go to the best schools, maybe even marry into a wealthy family. She'd be taken care of and you and Imelda could live in comfort for all your days. It's not forever, mi hermano. Isn't your family's future worth the risk?"

Hector was finally persuaded to go with him on tour. Six months and no longer. That was fine for Ernesto. He was sure he'd be able to at least get a few more months out of Hector once they got out on the road. When they struck out, everything was fine at first, but a few weeks in, Hector started suffering from bouts of insomnia. He never had this problem before. They'd crashed at each other's houses many times after late-night rehearsals and Ernesto could attest that Hector Rivera slept like a sloppy rock. He'd usually flop on his back, limbs sprawled out at odd angles, and have a trail saliva seeping from the corner of his mouth. Didn't snore though, interesting enough. But this was no longer the case. Now, he stayed up most of the night, lying in bed, willing his eyes to close for more than an hour or two per night. There were times when Ernesto would wake up to the sound of Hector shuffling around, getting out his song book or writing a letter. He'd apologize, say he just missed his family, and beg Ernesto to go back to sleep.

This wouldn't be such a problem if it hadn't started affecting their performances. Hector was unable to focus, hit several wrong chords when he used to hit none, and lacked the energy which captivated audiences at home. They were never going to catch a producer's eye this way. He tried to get Hector to take something to help him sleep, but Hector would insist that the only thing that would help would be getting back to his family. So, Ernesto did what he always did. He fixed the problem whether Hector wanted his help or not. He took some money he had stashed away and he bought a bottle of barbital. Every night, he'd slip some in Hector's drink. He was always careful to use the minimum dosage. He didn't want to kill Hector, after all. He just wanted his friend to get some sleep. It worked too. Just a pinch of powder and he'd be out like a light.

They continued like this for months. Just a little pinch while Hector wasn't looking and he'd get a full night's sleep. Hector sometimes complained that his drink tasted bitter, but he never caught on to this little trick. Then, they came to the end of Hector's six month deadline and he was adamant about going home. "I promised Imelda and she wasn't even happy then. Besides, I want to go. I miss them terribly. When you have a family someday, you'll understand."

Ernesto felt a fury churning in the pit of his stomach. What gave Hector the right to talk down to him like that? That lanky idiot would be nothing without him. Who was the one pushing their dream? Who was the one who got them that tour in the first place? If it weren't for Ernesto, Hector would be sitting at home in Santa Cecilia wondering how he was going to feed his family that week.

He was sure he'd be able to convince Hector of a few more months and there was ample opportunity. They were beginning to get noticed and invited to play bigger and better venues. The road to success was clear. They'd hit the big time if they stuck to it just a little bit longer. Why couldn't Hector see that? But, he'd already bought a ticket to the first train home the next morning. So, Ernesto did what he did best. He twisted the situation to his benefit. That night, he added just a bit more barbital to Hector's drink and it knocked the moron out cold. He woke up groggy with a headache the next morning a few hours after the train already left.

"What time is it? And why is my hair wet?" he asked, when he could find words.

"I'm so sorry, mi amigo," Ernesto apologized. He'd switched from hermano to amigo two weeks ago when Hector first started talking about going home. Hector hadn't noticed, or if he did, he hadn't picked up on the meaning behind it. "I tried to wake you but you were completely out. I even threw water on you. You just wouldn't get up."

"The train!" Hector jumped out of bed but quickly sunk back down holding his head.

"I'm afraid the train is long gone." Ernesto said, putting an arm around Hector's shoulders. "Look, maybe this is a sign. You just aren't meant to go home yet. Big things are on the horizon. Stick with me a little longer and you'll see."

He was able to coax about three more months out of Hector this way. If Hector started making noises about going home, Ernesto would give him another knock-out drink. He knew his friend to be a bit superstitious and hoped he'd pick up on the pattern. Maybe he did, but homesickness soon overshadowed fear of fate. He wasn't going to wait for the morning train. He had his bags packed and was ready to head out to the train station now. No amount of persuading, or arguing, or even outright begging could change Hector's mind.

Ernesto couldn't let him go. Not now. Not when they were so close. He needed Hector. Hector was always his ticket to standing out from the crowd. Without Hector, he was just another handsome man among hundreds of other handsome men all clawing after the same star. He needed Hector's vibrant personality. He needed the unique touch Hector brought to his writing. At the very least, he needed those songs. Ernesto had always been a good actor. He could fake the showmanship and the spark of creativity that Hector brought to the table. But those songs were irreplaceable.

Ernesto stopped his begging at the last possible second, when Hector was just about to go out the door. He gave his friend plenty of time to change his mind. What happened next was his fault for not seeing reason. With one last bit of persuasion, he at least convinced Hector to take one for the road. He turned to fix the drink and dumped the contents of the barbital bottle into the glass. The powder dissolved quickly after a bit of mixing. With a smile, he proposed a toast. "I would move heaven and earth for you, amigo. Salud!" The fool never suspected a thing.

Now, here he was, in a dark alley with the blank-faced husk of the man he once called his best friend. He didn't look peaceful like dead people were supposed to look. He didn't look pained either. His eyes were open and he just stared. This was unacceptable. The damn corpse was staring at him, judging him. "You did this to yourself," Ernesto huffed, using two fingers to shut those accusatory eyes. "I gave you every opportunity to change your mind."

He got down to work, taking off Hector's nice mariachi suit and replacing it with torn rags. He smeared dirt on the face and messed up the hair. The final touch was the mostly-empty bottle of cheap tequila he placed in Hector's cooling hand. There, unrecognizable. When someone came across the body in the morning, they'd just assume it was some drifter who drank himself to death. Hector would wind up in a pauper's grave and the police would be none the wiser.

Ernesto grabbed Hector's bags and turned to go, but some force stopped him. He turned to take one last look at Hector. His body was crumpled against the side of the building and his head slumped against his chest. Ernesto half expected to see Hector open his eyes and pop up laughing like it was a joke gone too far. But no. Hector would never get up again. Ernesto stayed a moment longer, assuring himself that his best friend was really dead. Murdered.

With one last sneer at the corpse, Ernesto turned and left.

[-]

Ernesto woke in his hotel room to the sound of singing. He looked around. It was still dark, but he could see everything clear as day. He turned his head to the corner of the room where Hector lazily hummed an old folk song and inspected himself in the mirror. "Couldn't sleep, mi hermano? Me neither," Hector said, twisting his body to see himself at every angle. "You know, I don't think I'm a big fan of your taste in clothes."

Ernesto realized that Hector was wearing the rags he dressed him in. "You…what are you doing here?"

"What, you think just because you left me out there, I wouldn't find my way back?" Hector finally turned to face Ernesto and flashed his famous grin. But…no…this wasn't it. This was not his grin. There was something off about it. It was just a bit too wide and pulled his skin just a bit too tight. There was a mean glint in his eye that Ernesto had never seen before. It all just looked so wrong on Hector's face.

"But you…you're…I…"

"You what?" Hector asked, prodding sympathy in his voice. "Is there something wrong, amigo?" Ernesto knew from past experience that Hector's face should fall into a concerned expression. He knew it well. The eyebrows would raise slightly while the lips turned downward. That is not what happened. Hector's face remained frozen in this unsettling imitation of a grin.

He knew. He knew perfectly well what Ernesto did. He knew that he shouldn't be here, walking around and breathing. He was drawing it out, making Ernesto look like a fool. Hector was toying with him, mocking him. When did that pushover get the nerve? "You should be dead!" Ernesto shouted, jumping out of bed.

"Dead?" Hector's hands flew to his chest in a shocked gesture, but the grin remained, only opening wide to imitate a gasp. "Where ever did you get that idea?"

"You know, damn you! You know! Why play coy about it? Is this how vengeful spirits spend their time?"

"I assure you, I have no idea what you're talking about." The Hector-like creature began to cross the room and Ernesto backed up into the bed. He didn't want that thing getting near him. He didn't want to see that grin up close. "You must be tired," it said, getting close enough to put its arm around Ernesto. "You should go back to bed. Would you like anything to help you sleep?"

Ernesto shrunk away from the Hector-thing's touch, but he couldn't shake it off completely. Up close, he realized that this Hector never blinked. "What do you want from me?"

"Mi hermano," the grinning specter whispered as it gently laid Ernesto down like it was putting a child to bed. "All I wanted was to go home."

[-]

Ernesto awoke with a gasp and sat bolt-upright in bed. He looked around again. The room was filled with proper darkness. He was only able to make out vague shapes and images. He looked in the corner. There was no living corpse gazing at itself in the mirror. And the room was completely silent.

For a moment, he felt compelled to jump out of bed and go to the alley where he left Hector, just to make sure the body was still there. He quickly dismissed the idea. This was insanity. A corpse couldn't get up and walk around. A corpse couldn't mock him and make a fool of him. It was nothing; just dead flesh and bone.

He laid back down. A dream. Only a dream. But there was something about it, something intimate. Ernesto was never all that superstitious, but he could feel a very real anger emanating from the Hector-like creature. Could it be that Hector's vengeful spirit came back to haunt his dreams? No, that was ridiculous. Since when does Hector do anything vindictive? Maybe since you murdered him.

Ernesto rolled over on his side. It was possible. Being murdered must change a person. But, no, no. Hector had no idea that poison was in his drink. That damn trusting fool drank it without a second thought. And nothing proves it was a ghost anyway. It was just a dream and Hector was dead and gone forever.


	2. Chapter 2

Fun fact about Ernesto de la Cruz: he was a mild insomniac. It was common knowledge among fans. This bit of trivia was as basic as his birthday and hometown. It was confirmed many times by agents, stage hands, and his live-in house staff. One former maid gave a tell-all interview with a tabloid where she talked about Ernesto's odd sleeping patterns. She told them how Ernesto would go to bed, then get up at odd hours of the night, roaming around, looking for a distraction. He also stringently refused to use sleep aids. When asked about it, he'd chalk it up to the pressures of fame and everyone would nod their heads. Poor Ernesto. All the fame and money in the world couldn't buy him a decent night's sleep.

It would be insane to admit the real reason. That the damn Hector-creature relentlessly turned up in his dreams. It wasn't every night, but it was consistent enough to make Ernesto dread going to sleep. In the dreams, he'd usually be living his life as usual, playing concerts, filming movies, going to photoshoots, but Hector would always be there with him. Maybe it was because he always imagined Hector to be there, playing accompaniment and writing the songs while Ernesto belted them out at center stage. In a way, it was much the same. His first hit record was entirely comprised of songs Hector wrote. In a way, it was like Hector was right on stage with him, except that Hector was dead, and Ernesto took all of the credit.

Ernesto had the spotlight and the renown all to himself. He knew a "good" person wouldn't think like this, but he actually preferred it this way. Solo fame and fortune was much better than having to share it. In fact, he even felt it was deserved. If Hector was such a genius, why didn't he have this success when he was alive? Why, when they were partners, did they only play small clubs and stay in cheap hotels, while Ernesto de la Cruz, the solo act, played stadiums and lived in a mansion? Clearly Hector was the one holding them back. Hector thought too small, more concerned with taking care of his family than making the world love him. Ernesto had the ambition and the vision to get their dream off the ground. After all, Ernesto was the one who could take a sappy lullaby and turn it into an iconic love song.

But no matter how much he reasoned with himself, or how many rational excuses he came up with, the Hector-creature always came back. Over the years, Ernesto collected quite a few unforgettable images from his nightmares. In one, he dreamed that he was at a photoshoot. The Hector-Creature appeared alongside him. "Which is my best side?" the Hector creature asked and it turned its head to reveal the decomposing side of his face.

Another time, Ernesto had an interview where the reporter asked him about the man he used to perform with early in his career. In real life, Ernesto managed to skirt around this question with some fluff about creative differences. But not in the dream. In the dream, the Hector-creature hovered over the reporter's shoulder and pierced Ernesto with its unblinking gaze. Ernesto got tongue-tied and stumbled over his answer. The reporter's expression darkened and called him a liar. He demanded the truth, over and over again. Ernesto blinked and found himself in a courtroom before a judge. He looked around and in the back he could see gallows. The judge, jury, lawyers, and spectators all chanted, demanding the truth. The Hector-creature floated above it all, cackling.

Hector even reared his annoying head in Ernesto's waking life. Shortly after Hector's death, Ernesto started getting endless letters from Imelda demanding to know where her husband was. Ernesto threw them all straight into the trash, but the lack of response didn't discourage her. She didn't stop until he returned to Santa Cecelia to play one last show in the plaza. She confronted him in the tent which served as his dressing room. He told her the only thing that would stop her from asking questions. He told her that Hector was never coming home. He told her that her husband was sleeping his way through every woman in Mexico and had forgotten all about her. She delivered a slap to his face, and that was the end of that.

But still, he had a dream that night. This dream in particular, he remembered clear as day for the rest of his life.

[-]

Ernesto found himself on the roof of a building looking at the night sky. A gentle breeze tousled his hair and a soft guitar played in the background. For a moment, he thought he'd have a peaceful sleep tonight. But then, he looked in the direction of the music and he saw just who was playing it.

He turned to see a slim figure with stylishly shaggy hair sitting on the ledge of the building, guitar in hand. Its back was turned to him and was hidden in shadow, but he knew it was Hector. "Nice night," it said. The voice was off. It was softer and higher-pitched than he remembered. "Remember when we used to sit up here for hours, trying to teach ourselves how to pluck out a few bars?" It laid down on its back, still strumming, and looked up at him. "Man, those were the days, huh hermano?"

All at once, it hit him where he was. He was standing on the roof of Hector's childhood home. On summer nights, just like this one, they sat up here, talked, laughed, and tried to learn to play songs from memory. And this Hector, the one smiling up at him, was not the man he killed, but the boy he grew up with. "Something wrong, hermano?" Child Hector asked, innocent, unblinking eyes staring up at him. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Ernesto looked at the child skeptically. What was the Hector-creature trying to pull? Did it think that showing him their childhood would pull at his heartstrings?

"Thanks for helping me get that trill," Child Hector said, flashing his signature grin. "I couldn't have done it without you, hermano mayor."

Ernesto's breath caught in his throat. He forgot Hector used to call him that.

The boy set the guitar aside and rolled over to stand up. By the time he got up, he'd grown to his teenage self, scruffy attempt at facial hair and all. "By the way, do you really think I have a chance with Imelda? She's just so smart and beautiful. She must have millions of guys to choose from."

The Hector thing paused and Ernesto realized it expected an answer. He remembered this day. Hector had just met Imelda a week before. He spotted her in the market, and he made a complete ass of himself trying to impress her. Hector tried to smoothly slide up to her with an opening line no-doubt forming in his brain. Then, some hulking tank of a man shoved him aside and he crashed into a fruit stand. Hector, pride wounded and covered in pulp, attempted to call out the tank. Ernesto had to drag him away before anything could happen. The man was twice Hector's size and would have beaten him into a greasy smear on the pavement. Luckily, he'd failed completely in attracting Imelda's attention and she'd missed the whole spectacle. They retreated to their rooftop where Hector asked the same question.

"I don't know," Ernesto replied to his friend's dark reflection. "Going after a girl like that would break your heart. You should set your sights lower."

To his surprise, the thing grinned. "Really? That wasn't what you said the last time." Ernesto's blood ran cold as the grin grew wider. "Last time you said, 'Of course, hermano. You are the best man I know. She'll see that soon enough. Any woman would be lucky to have you.'"

That was what he'd said and he'd regretted it. He didn't really believe his worlds. He only said them because he didn't want to see his friend so upset. He thought Imelda was way out of Hector's league and he expected the whole thing to blow over. He never expected them to fall in love, let alone get married and start a family; a family that apparently mattered more than their dream. If he knew what was coming, he would have put a stop to it. He would have told Hector to give it up right then and there. Hector might still be alive if he had.

"I'm going home."

The voice snapped Ernesto out of his thoughts and he looked up to see Hector, adult Hector, looking exactly the way he did on the night he died. His face was serious in the way it almost never was. Hector Rivera, nervous jokester, easy pushover, and compulsive placater, was putting his foot down. Ernesto felt the cold anger in his gut all over again.

"I'm sorry, but my mind is made up. Hate me if you want."

It wasn't going to end the same way this time. There'd be no begging and pleading for him to stay. Ernesto had risen above that. If the specter wanted to throw the most shameful moment of his life back in his face, then fine. But he wasn't going to play along. Ernesto started laughing. His long and loud bellows disturbed the peaceful night. He leaned forward, still laughing, and held Hector by the shoulders. "Oh, mi hermano," Ernesto laughed, tightening his grip. Hector's face never wavered. "Hate you? I pity you. You chose your new family over me, and you know what?" He stopped laughing and jerked the spirit toward him. "It was the wrong choice."

With all his might, he threw Hector backward over the ledge. It stumbled back. Ernesto grinned, waiting for the body to fall. It never did. It stopped itself, hanging over the ledge. Its feet remained on the ground, but its body hovered over the empty air, bending in ways a body never should. All went silent for the moment and Ernesto could only look on, shocked at the sight.

In a sudden rush, it bounce back. The body snapped back up and, in a flash, appeared right in front of Ernesto's face. He found that he could neither move nor scream. The Hector-creature's face crumbled before him. The hair fell out in patches. The flesh on its face rotted and peeled off in sheets. The worst part was the eyes. They pierced him, bulging out of the skull. The mouth moved and Ernesto could see the jaw being held together by thin strings of sinew. "Ernesto," it hissed. "You betrayed me."

Ernesto couldn't speak, or respond in any way. He could only stare back as the Hector-creature's eyes burned holes in his very soul. "Why?" it shrieked in a voice as dry as dust. Something like tears began streaming down its face and the crumbling body shook as it let out loud sobs. "Why?" It shrieked again.

"I only wanted to go home."


	3. Chapter 3

Death wasn't so bad, Ernesto decided. Sure, dying was horrible. Being crushed to death was almost instantaneous, but the key word there is almost. There was a split-second between life and death where he existed in pure, hellish pain and that split-second was the longest split-second of his not-quite-life.

But, once he was through with that, he was able to pick up right where he left off. He still had fans swarming around him. He still had artists eager to work with him. The only difference was the women, who he became less interested in once certain activities were, well, no longer an option. Still, being dead had its perks. He didn't need to eat or drink the way the living did, but he still could if he wanted. Alcohol could still bring on its positive effects, but without any of the nasty hangover business. Best of all, in his opinion, he didn't need to sleep. Like food and alcohol, he still could if he wanted, but it wasn't necessary. Part of him did miss a solid night's sleep, which he hadn't had for 21 years in the living world, but after two decades of shutting his eyes and praying for one night's reprieve of the Hector-Creature's torment, why take the risk?

Unfortunately, most people still chose to sleep. For them, sleep still felt good. It was a nice way to relax and pass the time. Besides, people were creatures of habit, and most couldn't imagine what they'd do with themselves for 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year, for the rest of the foreseeable eternity. His options at 4:00 in the morning were limited to staying in by himself, or wandering the streets looking for someone else with his distaste for sleep. He'd never been very good at entertaining himself and he had too much pride to try to befriend any old riff-raff off the street. Still, he wanted people around. He fed off the admiration of others and he never felt more alive than when he was the center of attention. Ernesto tried to accommodate this by throwing lavish parties at his mansion every night. He was able to keep this up for a few weeks after his arrival but, as it turns out, even the dead can get partied-out. The guest list began to dwindle and even Ernesto himself grew weary of constantly playing host.

Still, he couldn't remain idle. He needed something to keep him occupied. He felt the itch to perform again. He missed standing under the bright spotlight and listening to the rush of applause. He had been asked multiple times what he planned to do next. Artists clambered for the chance to work with him. Fans practically begged him to put on another show. So, he decided, another show they shall have. And plenty more after that. It was time to get back to work.

He used his connections to get the ball rolling. He had his people gather together the best musicians, set designers, and costumers in the Land of the Dead. He booked a studio in the heart of the arts district. When he showed up on his first day of rehearsal, people gathered around him, calling his name and trying to catch his attention. But one voice, one voice carried itself over the crowd.

"Ernesto! Ernesto!"

No, that voice, he should have known.

"Ernesto!" A tall, lanky skeleton man popped out of the crowd and threw himself into a hug. "Ernesto, it's been so long mi hermano," he said, backing out of the hug and taking Ernesto by the shoulders. "I was so sorry to hear about your death, but now you're here and I have so many questions."

It was almost a shock. He was used to this once upon a time. He had 21 years of Hector flinging himself into affection, especially when excited. He couldn't count the times he was greeted with an enthusiastic slap on the back or a welcoming hug. Once, it made him smile every time. But then, Hector died. Ernesto outlived him by 21 years and that 21 years was spent getting to know another Hector. That Hector-Creature with the grim smirk and the wicked cackle. That Hector burned itself into Ernesto's brain and refused to leave. This Hector was right. It had been so long.

He wasn't even entirely sure this was the right man. But then Hector grinned and he knew. This grin, the one that lit up his face like it was the most natural thing in the world, definitely belonged to the real Hector.

Ernesto glanced around. Everyone watched him, waited for his reaction. He wasn't entirely sure how to react himself. How did these people know Hector? Did they know him well? He had 21 years to build up his own reputation, after all. Did they know how long he'd been here? If they did, Ernesto couldn't pass him off as just another fan, not if they knew he died before Ernesto got famous. But Hector called him "hermano." He just had to use that old nickname. He could hear people whispering about it. "I didn't know he had a brother…" Maybe he could pass Hector off as confused. He could say Hector was mistaking him for another Ernesto. But how could someone make that mistake? He wasn't just any Ernesto, he was Ernesto de la Cruz. He was stuck. He didn't know how things worked here yet, but Hector had 21 years to figure it out. For once, Hector had all the leverage and Ernesto had none. But, by the look on that fool's face, he didn't know it.

Ernesto decided to play into Hector's hand. "My old friend," he laughed to everyone's astonishment. "Walk with me." He threw his arm around Hector and lead him away from the crowd. "Perdonanos, we've got some catching up to do."

He took Hector to his dressing room and closed & locked the door. He didn't want anyone walking in on them, just in case this was all a charade. He didn't know what this Hector knew yet, and he didn't want to find out with anyone listening.

Hector looked around the room and let out a long whistle. "Wow, fancy. You actually did it, huh?"

"Yes, I did." No thanks to you. "Seems like you're doing alright for yourself here. I shouldn't have been surprised to see you. I did ask them to assemble the best musicians in the Land of the Dead."

Hector sent a smile over his shoulder. "I guess I'm doing okay," he answered, wandering around the room, exploring whatever there was to explore. "I managed to carve myself out a small place here. I've been playing accompaniment for other performers. Haven't been in the spotlight myself. Haven't written any new songs in a while either." His expression suddenly grew solemn and he cast his eyes downward "I haven't had the heart for it."

What was he up to? Why would he bring up song writing? Was a confrontation about to happen right here and now? If so, Ernesto wanted to get the first and last word. "Hector, I'm not sure how much you know about my career…"

"Just that you got a record deal after I died and you became some big movie star," Hector answered, picking things off shelves, seemingly at random, and inspecting them. "What's that like, by the way? Films weren't really around when I was alive and…"

What was this? Was Hector toying with him? Or did he really not know? Ernesto would never know which unless he tested the waters. "Of course, I wouldn't have gotten there without my music," he interrupted.

"Our music," Hector corrected. He put down the jar of pomade he'd been fidgeting with and looked Ernesto directly in the eye. The jar clapped against the table with a sense of finality. "I know you've been singing my songs, Ernesto."

This startled him. It always startled him when Hector suddenly became serious like that. "I don't want you to be angry about it. If it's about people assuming I wrote them then…"

"Esta bien," Hector said with a shrug. "I know only intense music buffs like me bother to read all of the credits on the record covers. I'm sure you set the record straight whenever you could…" Hector gave him a searching look. "And now that you're here, you can set it straight again, si?"

"Of course, mi hermano," Ernesto answered, and immediately started planning ways to get around this.

"Listen, I'd love to talk to you about your career another time," Hector said, taking a seat on the couch. He became serious again, but in a different way. He let out a weary sigh and his shoulders collapsed like the heavens came crashing down on them. He looked up and he seemed…aged somehow. He still had the face of a skeleton, but it wore the expression of a man who'd seen nearly everything. "Please," he begged in barely more than a whisper. "Please, tell me you know what happened to me."

"I'm not sure what you mean," Ernesto said, taking a step closer.

"When I died…I've been trying to make sense of it. I was healthy, I was fine…"

"Healthy men drop dead all the time, sadly, for one reason or another," Ernesto answered, softening his voice. "Look at me. I never saw that bell coming." He sat down on the couch and Hector scooted over a bit to give him more room. "It's a scary world. You never know what might get you."

Hector shook his head and looked down at his hands folded in his lap. "My body, it's not in Santa Cecelia. And Imelda and Coco…they haven't put up my photo, neither one. They…they know I'm dead, don't they?"

Hector looked at him with heartbreak in his eyes, trusting Ernesto to bring him some comfort. He has no idea. He doesn't even suspect. All Hector wanted was for his hermano mayor to support him once again. What could Ernesto tell him? The truth? They were long past the truth. Still, he needed to say something. He was there when Hector died and logic dictated that he'd know what happened next. He cooked up a story in his brain. Now all he need to do was sell it. He thought, how would a more sensitive man act in this situation? How would Hector act? "I'm so sorry, hermanito," he said, putting a hand on Hector's shoulder. He hadn't pulled out that name since Hector was 10, but he wanted to lay the affection on thick. "I did you wrong and I've lived with that guilt all my life."

"What do you mean?

"You remember we didn't have much. I couldn't pay to ship your body back to Santa Cecelia, nor could I pay for a proper funeral. I wanted to send word to Imelda, but I didn't want her to just open up a letter and find out she was a widow. They couldn't wait for me to travel back and bring her up to Mexico City. They had to bury you fast, before you began to rot. I would have been the only one in attendance and I couldn't handle it." He clasped his hands together and rested his brow against them. He tried to force some tears, but none came. Boy, I hope my acting skills haven't gone rusty. "I didn't want to go through it alone. So, I couldn't…I didn't…"

"You didn't attend my burial…" Hector's face somehow fell even more.

"I am so sorry. I was weak. It is unforgivable."

"No, I understand," he says, gently placing a hand on Ernesto's back. "You already had to watch me die. Were our places reversed, I'm not sure I'd have been able to handle it myself, given the circumstances."

Ernesto could hardly believe it. This fool…this fool was trying to comfort him? He just told Hector that he let his best friend be laid to rest without a single mourner. Why didn't he get angry? It would be so much easier if he didn't understand; if he just got angry for once. Hate me. I killed you. I left your body alone in an alley. I told your wife you abandoned her. I am the reason you can't go back. Hate me.

"But, Imelda…you told her?" Hector asked, watching him with searching eyes, this time looking for hope.

"Yes, I jumped right on a train and headed straight for Santa Cecelia," Ernesto assured him. The part about jumping on a train was true, at least.

"How did she react?"

"You know Imelda," he said, dismissively. "She doesn't like to convey anything unless it's righteous fury."

Hector shook his head and looked down at his hands again. "No… not for me."

Damn, Ernesto only remembered three moods for Imelda: anger, mild annoyance, and star-eyed mooning over her husband (with Hector wearing a matching expression of course.) "You were her husband," Ernesto recovered. "Me? I'm just the guy who tagged along all the time."

"Am."

"What?"

"I am her husband," Hector insisted, getting the strength to look him in the eye once again.

"Yes, yes, of course," Ernesto conceded, giving Hector a light pat on the back. Apparently Hector didn't believe in 'til death do us part.

"What about Coco?" he asked, the solemn tone returning to his voice.

"I didn't see Coco, only Imelda." Another technical truth. "I lost contact with them after that. You were my only link to them and, well…"

"Did she say anything?"

"She thanked me for telling her in person and closed the door in my face."

"If she knows, why doesn't she put up my photo?" Hector looked close to breaking. "Is she still angry about the tour? From her letters, I thought she would forgive me. Does she hate me so much?"

"It is a mystery," Ernesto mused, uncomfortably. It always made him uncomfortable when Hector bared his emotions so shamelessly.

Hector paused. He looked as if something just clicked in his brain. "And you…" he said, turning his head toward Ernesto. "How come you never…"

"Ah, you know me," Ernesto quickly cut him off. "You know I didn't believe all this when I was alive. I would have if had known, but playing your songs was my way of honoring you. It was like you were right there on stage with me the whole time." Hector gave him a small, sad smile and Ernesto saw his escape. He wanted out of this conversation. His only intention was to find out what Hector knew. It was getting heavy now and Hector was starting to ask too many questions. "Look at us, a couple of sad sacks." He jumped up and clapped his hands together. "This should have been a happy reunion. Two hermanos together again."

Hector looked up, fragile smile playing on his lips.

"What are we doing?" He took Hector by the shoulders and pulled him off the couch. "Come, let's pull ourselves together. We're holding up rehearsal." He threw his arm around Hector like they were still the best friends in the world. "We'll just get through this one day and some other time, you and I will go out for some drinks. I'll tell you all the crazy stories I have from after I got famous. It'll be just like the old days."

"I'd like that," Hector answered, his smile becoming a little more solid.

Ernesto put on his movie star grin and ushered his old friend out the door. They'd get through this one rehearsal today, and he'd have Hector fired tomorrow.

"And Ernesto," Hector said, softness still present in his voice, "thank you, for trying to take care of things after my death. It sounds like you tried everything you could to break it gently to them. I cannot thank you enough for that."

"Of course, mi hermano," Ernesto answered, stunned Hector was grateful for even the little he claimed to have done. "Anything for you."

Immediately after Hector left rehearsal that day, Ernesto went to the maestro and demanded he fire Hector. The maestro was surprised and questioned why. Apparently Hector built up a reputation as a talented and dedicated guitarist. He used his Ernesto de la Cruz card and claimed that the maestro would never work in the arts district again if he ever saw Hector back here.

Apparently Hector didn't take it well. They didn't need to bring in security, thank God. After the show he made over catching up the day before, the last thing he needed was a scene. He did overhear the maestro describing Hector as "blown back" by the news. Ernesto watched through the window as Hector left the building and caught a glimpse of his bitter scowl as he walked away. Surely, Hector must hate him now.

Word got around. If you wanted to work in the arts district, you didn't associate with Hector Rivera. A few still did in secret. He knew of a costumer and a violinist who still kept contact. He pretended not to know. He needed a few people to keep tabs on Hector, just in case. He heard through the grapevine that Hector'd been asking around, talking to other songwriters who claimed Ernesto de la Cruz stole their songs. So, the idiot was finally getting wise. Hector was Ernesto's one and only murder, but he did have a history of "collaborating" with unknown talent and blacklisting them once he recorded their songs.

Not much came from Hector's poking around. He may have figured out the truth about his songs, but he couldn't do anything about it. After all, Ernesto was still Ernesto de la Cruz and Hector was music career poison. But, every now and again, their paths would cross. Ernesto would be out with his entourage and he'd catch a glimpse of Hector across the crowd. Occasionally, their eyes would lock and Hector would glare bitterly at his former best friend.

For a split second, Ernesto would feel a pang of something in his chest, but it'd be gone too fast for him to recognize. He'd shake it off and go right back to being the beaming celebrity who everyone loved. It was Hector's fault, really. He had the same opportunity as Ernesto. He could have been living the high life too. But he squandered that chance. He missed his shot at celebrity while Ernesto grabbed it with both hands. And to think, he gave it all up, all because he wanted to go home.


	4. Chapter 4

That damn Hector haunted him everywhere he went.

Yes, he was free. Allowed to roam the Land of the Dead instead of a prison cell only on a technicality. The most capital crimes in the Land of the Dead included skull smashing, encasing (for example, in cement), dismembered encasing (like regular encasing, except with separated bones), and any other attempt to permanently trap another person. No one bothered to put attempted murder on the books. It was now, thanks to him. However, as he’d committed the crime before it was technically a crime, he was in the legal clear by the non-skin of his teeth. At least some of his lawyers were still willing to work for him…for double their usual price.

As for the crime he all but confessed to in front of a crowd, that of murdering his former best friend, he could have still been convicted for it had Hector been interested in pressing charges. It was actually pretty difficult to get away with murder in the Land of the Dead. The victim could press charges against their murderer the second they crossed over. Special counselors were in place to help them through the process. If they knew the name of the murderer, they could give it to the police. They could undergo a memory scan and have the memory of their murder stored as evidence. The police then analyzed it to find the identity or confirm the murderer. Once the murderer died themselves, they’d be arrested on the spot. With memory scan and facial recognition technology, the cases were open & shut. The murderer would receive punishment, even if they managed to escape it in life.

It was more complicated in Hector’s case. Hector hadn’t known he’d been murdered when he first died. He didn’t undergo the memory scan procedure. He could now, if he wanted, but it would only show Hector drinking a shot of tequila and collapsing in the road. Any hard evidence of poison was left in the Land of the Living. At the Sunrise Spectacular, Miguel accused Ernesto of murder, and he didn’t deny it, but it wasn’t technically a confession (although throwing the boy off a building right after wouldn’t have boded well in his favor). The evidence was all circumstantial and it would turn into a massive legal battle which Hector wasn’t willing to endure. So, legal-wise at least, he got away with it.

The plagiarism, however, was easier to prove. Hector died with a few things in his pocket. Two of those things included a letter from daughter to father and a letter from father to daughter. They were both documented on his death report when he first arrived, 2 years before Ernesto released first album in the Land of the Living. Hector kept them like sacred relics for almost a century. Both letters contained lyrics to Remember Me. Imelda was surprisingly adamant about Hector reclaiming credit, apparently furious that her daughter’s precious gift was stolen and exploited for so many years. She verified that Hector played that song for Coco the day he left for the tour. She also confirmed that Hector and Coco would both sign off their letters with lyrics from the song. She’d know. She was the one who put Coco’s letters on paper. All it took was a handwriting sample from both Hector and Imelda to confirm that Hector was the true artist.

Ernesto was forced to pay restitutions to make up for 96 years of plagiarism. It was a hefty sum, but it didn’t leave him destitute by any means. He was able to keep his tower, but it feel into disrepair from neglect. He became isolated, not wanting to deal with the stares and whispers of the people around him, and those were the most polite of his despisers. Sometimes, he’d get a called an ugly name or spit in his face. He kept a few contacts on the outside, just to keep in touch with the world around him. As his bones never yellowed, he assumed Miguel, that brat of a living boy, never told anyone in the Land of the Living of his crimes, or at least no one believed the kid. He found out a year later it wasn’t true. News trickled in from the Land of the Living. Apparently the new arrivals were positively abuzz with revelation that their beloved icon was both a thief and a murderer, not to mention a fraud. So, he was still remembered, but as a villain. People loved juicy story either way.

It all started that night, when the living boy, claiming to be his great great grandson, crashed his party. It was strange, and certainly unexpected, seeing Hector again. He looked different than the last time and it took Ernesto a second to recognize him. When they met that day at Ernesto’s first rehearsal in the Land of the Dead, Hector wore clean, whole clothes and even had some shoes. His bones weren’t as glittering white as Ernesto’s but not the sickly yellow they’d turned by that fateful Dia de los Muertos. He could tell just by looking that Hector wasn’t long for this world.

Then, Hector held out the photo to Miguel and Ernesto took it. He hadn’t seen that face in the literal flesh since he died, not in waking or in dreams. The grin was a stark contrast from the last time he’d seen Hector flesh face in person. Ernesto remembered the way Hector’s freshly dead body stared blankly, half his face pressed against the cobblestones. He couldn’t forget.

But the image of another Hector also burned itself into his brain. The Creature Hector, with its over-wide threatening smile and its never-blinking eyes. It’d been decades since he last dreamed, since he last let that thing haunt him. Still, he couldn’t scrub that face from his mind. He remembered the last dream. In it, he performed his last Dia de los Muertos show in the living world, the same show where he met his demise. He played for an audience of one. The Hector Creature, grin gleaming and face half rotted off, sat front-row, center. When the performance ended, it clapped slowly. “Excelente, but I believe I heard that last song somewhere before,” it said, referring to Remember Me. “Something about it rings a bell.”

As Ernesto looked at the photo and Hector begged him to let Miguel take it back to the Land of the Living, he actually considered it. Hector clearly wasn’t going to last much longer and it wouldn’t do much harm. Perhaps he could give Hector this one mercy, as a testament to their long dead friendship.

But then Hector had to bring up that night, that awful night. He could still remember. “Hate me if you want.” Those were the exact words Hector said to him. Those words made him decide. Those words told him exactly who Hector chose, who Hector was willing to sacrifice. “Hate me if you want,” as if it didn’t matter, as if their friendship didn’t matter, as if Ernesto didn’t matter. “Hate me if you want,” _because I don’t need you anymore._ Hector’s words sealed his fate back then, and they’d seal his fate now.

Come to think of it, this very well might be Hector’s last night before the final death, before he passed on to the true great unknown. By Hector’s clear desperation, he obviously knew it too. Don’t people who know they’re going to die (or, in this case, die again) usually try to complete unfinished business? Visit loved ones? See old friends? Resolve old conflicts? So why, if it weren’t for Miguel, would Hector not want to see Ernesto? Ernesto’d only been Hector’s best friend for the entirety of that fool’s life? Hector didn’t know about the poison. Hector only knew about the songs, which could easily be explained away. And yet, Hector wasn’t even going to try to see Ernesto. He was far too obsessed with seeing his goddamn kid to even consider it.

So, Hector wanted to see his daughter? Fine. He could see her in hell.

In retrospect, maybe he should have just let Miguel go home and let Hector see his girl. It’d be all over. Hector would be forgotten, Miguel would still idolize him, and the world would still love him. But, he underestimated Hector. He should have known Hector would find a way out. That damn constant thorn in his side always found a way back.

After that disastrous Sunrise Spectacular, it all fell apart. The fame, the respect, the admiration… he lost it all. No longer was he hailed as one of the greats. People didn’t praise him as a creative genius. It all shifted to Hector. And what did that fool do with it? He gave money away to the nearly-forgotten. He turned down chances to travel the Land of the Dead in order to stay home. He answered questions about if he would perform again with a maybe, saying he wanted to reconnect with his family first. Then next Sunrise Spectacular rolled around and he finally agreed to perform again, but, only if he was just one of the acts. The Sunrise Spectacular became a multi-performer concert where both famous musicians and unknown artists had the chance to perform. Also, it began at sunrise, rather than ended. He wanted to make sure everyone got to spend as much time with their families as possible.

Hector didn’t want fame anymore. It was all wasted on him. He squandered it, just like he planned to squander his own talents. Even in life, when he decided to go back to Santa Cecelia, he wanted to waste his time playing for that backwater town when he could be playing to large crowds in big cities. It was a cruel trick of fate that Hector was born with those natural gifts when he planned to fritter them away.

Hector thrived while Ernesto fell apart. It felt wrong. It was against the natural order of things. Ernesto was the star. Hector was the screw up. That’s the way it was, the way it should be. Not this. This was a waking nightmare with no escape.

Well, there was one escape. He could sleep. He hadn’t slept in 75 years, but he could try. He wandered into a guest room, one that hadn’t seen a guest in over a year. Ernesto had no bedroom himself. He had a dressing room, but as he never planned to sleep, he kept temptation at bay by never getting his own bed. It’s not as if any other bed-related activates were possible anymore, so he saw no need for getting one of his own. However, back in his glory years in the Land of the Dead, he threw parties that lasted several days and so, he needed these guestrooms for party-goers who grew tired and needed a break. This was the first time he set foot in one himself.

He lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling wondering how, exactly, this would go. The nightmares could possibly come back, especially now with old wounds reopened. But then again, the real Hector had his songs back and reunited with his family. Maybe the Hector Creature was appeased. Maybe he could close his eyes, get some rest, just this once…

[-]

Ernesto found himself in a small, familiar house. It was modestly furnished and very old fashioned in terms of technology. He’d been here many times before, but he couldn’t place it. At least not until he spotted the tall, lanky man sitting on the couch with a baby in his arms.

“Hector?” he asked. He had to be sure, this wasn’t the skeleton Hector was now. Nor was it the Hector Creature that used to haunt his dreams. This Hector smiled softly down at the baby and hummed it a little tune. He didn’t seem to notice Ernesto’s presence. “Hector?” Ernesto called again, this time louder.

“Shhh, silencio por favor,” Hector said in a quiet, gentle voice. “I just got her to sleep.” He got up from the couch and brought his daughter over to Ernesto. “God, look at her,” he said, holding the baby so that Ernesto could see her. “Un angelito. I still can’t believe she’s mine.”

“She is beautiful,” Ernesto answered. He wasn’t sure what to make of this. Was this a memory? Hector gushed over his little girl almost constantly after she was born. It was hard to pick out specific instances. Hector couldn’t stop smiling when he looked at her. It brought a smile to Ernesto’s face too. It was hard not to feel some warmth while watching a parent so in love with his child.

 “I know I should put her in the crib,” Hector went on, “but I just don’t want to let her go. I’m almost afraid, you know?” He turned his face to Ernesto and suddenly the grin grew wide. “Afraid I won’t get to spend enough time with her.”

That grin. No.

Hector looked back at his baby and his soft smile returned. “Alright, I’ll put her down. Then we can talk.” He took the baby into the bedroom and Ernesto stood frozen. That creature, it was back. The real Hector had everything he could want now and it was still back to haunt him. Maybe, if he left before the Hector Creature came back, he could escape this nightmare. He looked around, no doors. He went to the window, locked shut. He had nowhere to run.

“Something wrong, old friend?”

Ernesto practically jumped when he heard the voice. He turned around to see the Hector Creature, grin full, eyes staring, all the softness and warmth he had for his daughter now gone. “What do you want from me?” Ernesto growled, sick of this thing’s games.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” the Hector Creature asked, grin never wavering.

“It’s all been found out, alright?” Ernesto shouted. “Everyone knows the truth about the songs, about Hector’s death.”

“Murder, you mean,” the thing corrected so causally. “I’m not here for that. It’s never been about that. I’m here for you.”

“What?”

“I’m here for you, only you.” It took a step forward and Ernesto took a step back. “You’re the only one who’s important to me.”

“That’s not true. What about your daughter?”

Hector’s smile softened slightly and he got a dreamy look in his eye. “Ah, Coco. I did love her, but she’d have gotten in the way of our dream.” Hector reached into a pocket inside his jacket. “So, I set her aside, for you.” He produced a small bottle and showed off the label. Barbital, and it was empty.

“You…you…” He couldn’t believe it. Hector said he put the baby to sleep. Come to think of it, the baby did look unusually still. But that couldn’t be it. Hector would never… But this wasn’t the real Hector, was it?

“I don’t see what you find so repulsive about this,” Hector said, eerily calm. “She was in the way, so I took care of her.”

“But-but you love your daughter,” Ernesto sputtered out.

“I did,” the grin grew, “but isn’t our dream more important?”

“She’s a baby.”

The Hector-Creature simply grinned and took a step closer. “And Miguel was a child. What does it matter?”

Ernesto felt a sharp dip in his stomach and stepped back toward the wall. This wasn’t right. Never, for all the world, would Hector harm a child, harm anyone, then brush it off like it was nothing. He was wrong before. This, _this_ was truly against the natural order. “You… you’re not Hector.” A stupid thing to say, of course, given the circumstances. He knew this, he’d always known. But this thing, this creature, didn’t even deserve to wear Hector’s face.

“I’m better than Hector.” The Creature reached out and laid a spidery hand on Ernesto’s shoulder. “I’ll follow you everywhere. I’ll do what you want. You’ll come first, no matter what. It’s just what you always wanted.”

“No,” Ernesto growled and slapped the hand away, “not this.”

“It is. I have nothing else, no one to split my time with, no other obligations. I’m your best friend, and that’s all I am.”

“Who are you?” He shouted, advancing on the Creature. “Why do you torment me?”

“Torment?” The Creature crinkled its brows but the frozen grin remained. “When have I ever done anything to you?”

Ernesto paused. He tried to think of something, but apart from a few sly comments and cackling, he came up blank. It made itself grotesque sometimes and cried over its death others, but in truth, the Creature’s greatest torment was forcing him to see Hector’s face every night. It would never let him forget.

“What are you, then?” He roared. He was done with this game; done with this creature’s knowing smirks and coy hints. “What do you want? Where do you come from?”

“I don’t think you understand. I come from you.” The thing slid its arm around Ernesto’s shoulders and squeezed just a bit too tight. He recognized the gesture. He’d done it to Hector more times than he could count. The Creature turned its face to Ernesto so that he could smell its stale breath. “I’m yours, Ernesto,” it claimed, its grin somehow curling even more at the corners. “I’ve only ever been yours.”

[-]

Ernesto woke with a start. He looked around the strange room and it took him a second to remember where he was. He grabbed a pillow and shouted every curse known to man in it. Why? Why did it come back? Hector had everything he could ever want now. Why did that Creature continue to torment him? What more could that thing take?

Maybe, that was his mistake. He thought the Creature was tied to Hector all this time. In life, part of him wondered if it was the real Hector, back in spirit form to avenge himself. But tonight, it demonstrated that it most assuredly was not Hector. Never, not even in a dream, not even to prove a point, would Hector harm his own daughter.

The Creature said it came from him, but what did that mean? That Ernesto cooked it up in his own mind? It said it did what he wanted, but how could that be true? Who would want to be plagued with these nightmares every time they shut their eyes? But perhaps there was something to it. If the Creature was simply a figment of his own imagination, all he had to do was fill his mind with memories of the real Hector. Dreaming of the real Hector would hardly be as terrifying as this Creature. However, the memories he currently had evidently weren’t enough. He had to get some fresh ones.

There was a problem, though. He couldn’t just knock on Hector’s door and ask to grab a drink. The real Hector wouldn’t want to see him now. They couldn’t go back to the way they were, not after everything that happened. So, Ernesto would simply have to observe Hector from afar.

[-]

Ernesto tugged on the cloak’s hood, hiding his face. He couldn’t be seen, especially not here. He watched the Rivera household from across the way, tucked in an alley. Hector sat on a table in the courtyard with his guitar. He smiled serenely while playing a melody Ernesto’d never heard before. Occasionally, Hector would hit on a set of chords he liked and pause to write it down in a little notebook. Apparently, he found inspiration once again and was back to his songwriting. The fans would be happy to know that there would be a new set of songs come next Sunrise Spectacular.

Sometimes, people would pause to listen and he’d tell stop to chat, especially if it was a kid. In fact, one kid asked to hold the guitar. Not only did Hector hand it over, he also showed the kid how to hold it correctly and pluck out a few notes. He seemed absolutely at ease the entire time. But then, friendliness always came as naturally to Hector as breathing.

A little old woman came out of the house and sat with Hector. His face lit up like the Land of the Dead at night and planted a million kisses on her face. Ernesto didn’t recognize this woman. She wasn’t with the rest of the family the night they ruined his life. He watched the tender way Hector spoke to her and stroked her hair and he realized. No, it couldn’t be. This was little Coco? It had been nearly a century since he last saw her. Ay Dios mio, she must have lived to her late nineties at least.

Imelda came out as well to announce that dinner was ready. Hector helped his daughter off the bench. She smiled and rolled her eyes at being treated like a child, but made no other protest. She went inside while Hector lingered at the door. He wrapped his arms around his wife and gave her a kiss before they disappeared into the house together.

Ernesto felt a pain in his chest as he watched the door close. This was Hector’s life now, the seemingly idyllic family life he always wanted. And, as Ernesto suspected, there was no room for him. Ernesto made it a point to never look back. He left far too much destruction in his wake on his road to success. It wouldn’t be healthy for him. But now, as he stood in the cold, shady alley and watched the warm glow emanating from the Rivera’s home, he wondered what could have been. What would have happened if he let Hector live? Would they have made up and become friends again? Would they have found success some other time, some other way? Would Ernesto have even found a family of his own? Or would Hector have left him alone in the cold the way he did now?

It didn’t matter, really. The past was set in stone. He made the decision he could never take back. There was nothing to do but deal with the reality of now. But still, as he watched the silhouettes bustle in the kitchen window and remembered all the times in life Hector and Imelda invited him into their home, he felt a strong pull inside him. He tried his hardest to deny it, but it simply wouldn’t be ignored. Never before had he felt such a powerful longing to go home.


End file.
